10 Photos From the Gayest Beach Dance Party in America

Going to Fire Island is like entering another queer world; I’m here for all of five minutes before I’m seductively eating a peach and watching couples make out on the boardwalk. Everywhere you look here, queer people are feeling themselves: hot pink speedos, crop top energy, throuples walking hand in hand in hand.

I’m in the Pines to attend my first ever “Pines Party” last weekend, a gigantic night-to-day beach dance party known for its elaborate costumes, sweaty shirtless masses, and a thumping sound system which sways revelers into the sunrise, all taking place on one of the “gayest places on earth.” This year marked the party’s 20th anniversary, and I wanted to see it because I a) love the beach, and b) love to dance. And for as storied as the Pines Party is, it’s also not without its flaws — when I told friends and coworkers I was going, they were often quick to criticize the event for its focus on a mostly cis, white, gay demographic.

Zak Krevitt

It’s a recurring criticism of the Pines in general, and not without merit. The history of the Pines tracks with the history of America; just as racial discrimination was baked into the American housing market throughout the 20th century (and still is today), so too did structural inequalities lead mostly wealthy, cis, white gay men to purchase much of the property in the Pines throughout the ‘60s and ‘70s. Many of the properties remain in those same hands today, and while the community has become more diverse, it is still dominated by cis white folk.

Zak Krevitt

Some friends told me they’d feel uncomfortable on the island without a six pack, serum-drenched white skin, a perfect tan, and an $90 speedo. Desirability politics on the island are real, and I’ve had QPOC and trans friends tell me they’ve felt unwelcome or even fetishized while visiting. But I’ve also had QPOC friends tell me that they feel like family on the island, more so than they do in gay clubs in Manhattan. As is the case in many gay and queer spaces, sentiments of inclusion, exclusion, and safety are not always clear cut. Obviously, as a white, cis, pansexual guy with an average build and social proximity to wealth, I can’t speak to the experiences of trans folk, QPOC, and cis women present, but I was here to observe, learn, and listen. I held this dissonance in my mind as I plunged head first into one of the largest events on the island.

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After a day of costume making, beach lounging, and puppy petting with friends, we shifted into party mode. This year’s theme was Time Machine, so around midnight, in a gorgeous modernist home — the architectural style of which the island is known for — my crew and I donned our gear. Hand-made costumes made from silvery hand sewn fabric, neon green wearable strobe lights, elf ears, sparkly boots and goggles lit up our dark walk down the boardwalk.

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A gigantic stage rose before us with colorful lights beaming into the low-hanging clouds; similarly-adorned hordes of frolicking queers packed the dance floor, bumping away to disco and techno. A runway brimming with folks in the kinds of costumes that take weeks (and some serious skill) to build led up to the dance floor, flanked by private tents and wandering beams of light. What was a quiet queer beach hours ago had been transformed into an otherworldly megaclub. While the party certainly skewed towards the cis, white, male demographic, the crowd was more diverse than I had anticipated, given the intensity of criticism I had heard about it throughout the week. Trans folk, cis women, and QPOC were out and proud, and on that dance floor, as day became night and the first glimmers of sunlight gave us a fantastically vivid pink sunrise, we were dancing as a family, arm in arm in arm in arm, and that felt really fucking magical.

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